They were shoved forward again.
“I’m losing traction,” Sam said, worried that the rising water would drown the engine.
He pressed the accelerator again, and they felt the tires grab hold, only to give way again.
Sam pounded the steering wheel. “Damn!”
“We’re afloat,” Remi said.
Even as the words left her mouth, the Toyota’s hood was being shoved deeper into the slot. Nose-heavy from the engine, the vehicle began tipping downward as the tide shoved the rear upward.
Sam and Remi were silent for a moment, listening to the water rush around the car and bracing themselves against the dashboard as the Toyota continued pitching downward.
“How long would we last in the water?” Remi asked.
“Providing we’re not instantly crushed to pulp? Five minutes until the cold gets us; past that, we lose motor control and go under.”
Water began gushing through the door seams.
Remi said, “Let’s not do that, then.”
“Right.” Sam closed his eyes, thinking. Then: “The winch. We’ve got them on each bumper.”
He searched the dashboard for the controls. He found a toggle switch labeled Rear and flipped it from Off to Neutral. He said to Remi, “When I give the word, flip that to Engage.”
“You think it’s powerful enough to drag us?”
“No,” Sam replied. “I need a headlamp.”
Remi rummaged around the backpack and came out with the headlamp. Sam settled it on his head, gave her a quick peck on the cheek, then climbed over the seat, using the headrest as a handhold. He repeated this maneuver until he was wedged into the Toyota’s cargo area. He unlatched the glass hatch, shoved it open, then, lying with his back pressed against the seat, mule-kicked the hatch until the glass tore free from its hinges and plunged into the water. He stood up.
Below, the water churned over the Toyota’s undercarriage. Icy mist billowed around him.
Remi called, “The engine’s dead.”
Sam hinged forward at the waist, reached down, and grabbed the winch hook with both hands. Hand over hand, he began taking up the slack.
The winch froze.
“Climb up to me!”
Remi scrabbled over the front seat, reached back, retrieved the backpack, and handed it to Sam, then used his extended arm to climb into the cargo area.
“No!” she cried.
“What?”
Sam looked down. The beam of his headlamp illuminated a ghostly white face pressed against plastic sheeting.
“Sorry,” Sam said. “I forgot to tell you. Meet the real Mr. Thule.”
“Poor man.”
The Toyota shuddered, slid sideways a few feet, then stopped, wedged tightly in the rock archway and standing perfectly upright.
Remi tore her eyes off the dead man’s face and said, “I assume we’re climbing again.”
“With any luck.”